


Dreaming For a Decade

by mechanistmacha (SaturnJay)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Adrestian Empire/Church of Seiros/TWSITD/Crests, Angst, Consensual Sex, Consensual Underage Sex, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd-centric, Everyone Is Good, Fluff, Glenn Fraldarius Lives, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Pack, Polyamory, Soft Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Threesome - M/M/M, loose plot, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25321840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaturnJay/pseuds/mechanistmacha
Summary: Fódlan has only two factions--the Kingdom of Faerghus to the North and the Leicester Alliance to the south. Everything is at peace and balanced between them. The spirits of the earth and sky bless a chosen few with their powers (called Spirit-Sighted) to keep that balance and all is well. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, after the tragic death of his parents, assumes the role of King at thirteen and rules wisely and with compromise and diplomacy, never again taking up a weapon against a living person, using his strength to help his people rather than hurt. They are in peaceful negotiations of trade with Almyra and Dimitri is helplessly in love with Khalid, their mischievous young prince.But Felix keeps dreaming of conflict. Felix keeps dreaming of an Empire, of a red flag with a two-headed eagle.And he's not alone.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	1. Prologue: Eyes and Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to know what would happen if Dimitri never turned to darkness and there was no Empire, no TWSITD, no Church of Seiros, and if the magic was given by nature, rather than Crests of dragon blood. I just wanted a soft Dimitri who loves everyone around him and is loved by them all.
> 
> Warnings for this prologue: minor violence, canonical death of Dimitri's father and stepmother and Dedue's sister

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For fic updates and (sometimes) art, you can follow me @Mechanist_Macha

There was a ringing in Dedue’s ears that he couldn’t name. Was it the ringing of steel upon steel? Or was it that the explosive spells bursting around him like overripe apples had ripped apart his eardrums? Or was it just sheer terror that the little sister whose hand he held was not moving anymore? It was impossible to tell. He knew only that, when he looked up, he was staring at the back of someone’s blue cloak, trimmed in white fur--the colors of the enemy.

His village was gone, reduced to the ashes that he now knelt in, cradling the limp body of his only family, so perhaps he was hallucinating. It wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility, would it? Surely it made more sense that he was under the influence of some delusion than someone--a child?--of the enemy had protected him from a killing blow?

The soldier, seeing the child, dropped his sword. It splashed in pools of blood--it didn’t seem possible that there was so much. “P-Prince Dimitri?” he gasped.

Dedue didn’t know what was happening. They were speaking a language he didn’t know. His sister was dead. His sister was  _ dead  _ and so were his parents for all he knew. The flowers of Duscur were burning, and a child had saved his life. And that child turned around and fixed him with wide, watery eyes, and murmured something else he didn’t understand. Cradling his sister’s corpse, Dedue shook his head; the ringing in his ears might as well be the language the child spoke for all the good communication would do here.

The soldier fled. Dedue didn’t know why. They… they were  _ all  _ fleeing, casting spells and shooting arrows as they did--as if the people of Duscur they’d already killed could die a second time. There was no one else to shoot. No one else was moving.

Dedue collapsed. The desire to perish next to his sister and his village was stronger than the urge to run after the foreign cavalry and try to take them down with him. Death was stronger than revenge. He touched her face as the shouts of the retreating army fled into the distance; back south, where they had come from. He touched her face and she did not smile or pout. Her dress was singed and bloody. Absently, he tried to brush the scorch marks away from the hem. It was her best dress after all.

The child did not flee. He was so small, so delicate-looking, yet he stared into the flames with new vengeance in his eyes. And that was a language Dedue didn’t understand either. Why should a man look at the destruction caused by his fellows and feel wrath like that?

He didn’t care. He broke, finally allowing the tears to pass through the cracks of his shock and flood into the bottomless dam of grief. It seemed unreasonable that he could even cry with so much burning and heat around him, but cry he did, over every person, home, and flower petal he had lost that day. In one fell swoop, everything he knew was ripped out from under him. And he didn’t even have the solace of falling into that blissful death beside them.

It was a scream that made him look up. The child had walked away, stumbled into the middle of the carnage where a hundred Duscur corpses lay; a hundred of Duscur, and two of Faerghus. He screamed for them, Dedue assumed, grieving for what  _ he  _ lost.

He watched something red and bright cut through the air, like a sword, but it came from nowhere, with no one to wield it. Only when that rip in the burning air grew did Dedue see them; two women, with faces somber as rain and hair like starlight stepping through from the other side. Spirits of some kind, Dedue could only guess. But they were not here for him.

They embraced the Faerghus child as sweetly as if he were their own. Indeed, they looked more like they were Fódlan spirits, with skin pale like his. Dedue could only watch as a bright light surrounded the three of them for just a moment, consuming their bodies and then all of Duscur.

Dedue was still sitting, his sister’s head cradled in his lap, when everything bled back into the ugly color of fire from the white light. But the spirits were gone. Just the child on his knees, panting as though he’d come from a long journey without the time to rest.

Dedue picked up a fallen spearhead. It had been snapped off the handle, so it was little longer than a sword now. It would do. But a little white hand caught his arm before he could plunge it into his breast. The child had returned to his side and now, with streaks of wet in the grime of his cheeks, he shook his head. There was no longer vengeance in his eyes. And--they weren’t blue anymore but green as the dark, faraway depths of the sea.

With a strength that belied his small and delicate body, the boy pried the spear from Dedue’s shaking grip and threw it aside, putting his arms about him.

“Dimitri,” he said softly.

* * *

It was dark and the fires had mostly died by now. Those that still lived threw beautiful colors into the sky, sparks that would live on. Dimitri sat with Dedue the whole time, for hours while they both cried, first one, then the other, then both of them in distressing chorus. Now it was only the song of death in the air, the crackle and smell of burning bodies. They had no more tears left to cry.

**_“Prince Dimitri!”_ **

Dimitri looked up through the bloodbath and saw more living things, living people trampling over the dead without regard for them. Horses and men. Men whose faces were tightly pinched with horror for him.

“Glenn…” Dimitri said in quiet acknowledgment as the young knight swept off his still-running horse and stumbled down, yanking him to his feet in an embrace so hard that he might have been pressed into a living rock and not allowed to move. “I’m fine.” His voice was hollow, and it would be for some time. But he was alive.

Rodrigue, Gustave, and the castle healer, a gentle man named Cornelius, were soon in attendance, all fussing and prodding and hugging and sobbing. To be surrounded by life when he spent a day here, as dead and unmoving as the Duscur people, felt too strange to be right.

It was Glenn who noticed Dedue, but he didn’t reach for his sword. Dedue wished he would. At this point, who would give him the mercy he desired? At least then he would die here, in his homeland, surrounded by the arms of his people and buried in the scarred bosom of his beloved village. “Who is this?” Glenn asked quietly while Cornelius fussed over minor cuts and burns that the prince had sustained.

“My friend,” was all that the prince could say, since he didn’t know his name. “He’s my friend.”

Rodrigue and Gustave were bent over the two white bodies of the invaders Dimitri had mourned. They were both such strong and stoic looking men, yet they broke just as Dimitri had. Glenn wouldn’t go near.

“Your friend,” he said softly, his eyes straying piteously over the little girl Dedue held, who had died hours ago. “Should we… help bury the girl?”

Dimitri nodded, but when they approached Dedue, he held to her tighter and refused to let go. Dimitri came to him then. “What do you want?” he asked softly, gesturing at the girl. Dedue knew what he was asking, even if the words didn’t make sense. Somehow, the calm authority reflected in the new darkness of Dimitri’s eyes was easy to understand.

Dedue watched as the two other men began to carry the two corpses they mourned to their horses. He didn’t know where they were going with them, but he did not want his sister taken away from home. He gestured to the fire. She would become sparks and return to the spirit world. He would not let her rot in a land that was not her home.

Her favorite dress burned away so easily, and her flesh peeled away from the bone to the pink muscle beneath. There wasn’t a single flower left to ease her passage into the other world; they were all dead and gone. Dedue watched it all, and Dimitri held his hand.

“Come with me,” Dimitri said softly, watching the little girl become spirit sparks. Once again, his eyes spoke in a language Dedue could recognize when the sounds made little sense.

And Dedue agreed to join Dimitri and Glenn on the horse only because, in that moment, he didn’t want to let go of his hand.

* * *

  
  
Faerghus somehow felt colder than Duscur, even though it was in the south of Dedue’s homeland. It was midnight, but the enormous stone castle that loomed like a shadow over the snow was buzzing with activity, with shouts of anger, cries of grief, and the wails of those who looked upon the bodies of King Lambert and Queen Patricia and threw themselves to the ground; wails so loud they could shake the bricks loose. Dedue was shrouded in Glenn’s fur-lined cloak, but Dedue didn’t mind if these people recognized him and tore him apart. He was only here to hold Dimitri’s hand; thankfully, Dimitri hadn’t yet let go and didn’t seem to want to do so.

Glenn swept the two children off to the side and up into a small stone staircase. Whispering servants hardly looked at them as they passed, an irregularity both Glenn and Dimitri were grateful for. And Dimitri still held Dedue’s hand.

They were ushered into a room that must have been as big as Dedue’s entire home and half again as tall. It wasn’t as warm, though, all grey stone and austere tapestries of knightly figures. There was a fire, though, and huddled around it were three children like themselves.

It was the first time in so many hours that Dimitri let go of Dedue’s hand. He didn’t have a choice. A small brunette, a blonde girl, and a tall redhead had swooped in on Dimitri and seized him up tightly in a knot, mimicking the sounds of the people in the castle courtyard below; of grief and misery, tightly punctured by relief and coos of comfort. Dimitri cried for them when he thought he could cry no more, his beloved friends, and allowed them to stroke his hair and hold him tight and kiss his forehead.

No one mentioned his eyes.

Dedue just watched. Dimitri had life to return to, but Dedue did not. Only the redhead broke away from the pack to approach him carefully, as though he were a frightened animal. He spoke to him gently, but Dedue didn’t understand his words or his eyes, no matter how kind they were.

“This is Dedue,” Dimitri finally said and all of the other children turned to look at the young man from Duscur. “He’s my friend.”


	2. Child King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri is crowned King at age thirteen, and he wrestles with something inside of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: some suicidal thoughts
> 
> For fic updates and (sometimes) art, you can follow me @Mechanist_Macha

Cornelius visited the prince in his room the next morning. Some of the grief had died down; or rather, people retreated to their rooms in exhaustion to grieve more quietly. Glenn had checked in with breakfast for all five of them earlier--the prince, Sylvain, Felix, Ingrid, and Dedue--and they were all picking at the remains when the healer arrived. Dedue had not eaten anything, nor had anyone slept, but Dimitri was looking weary, like he might fall over at any moment.

“May I come in, my prince?” Cornelius murmured in at the children. Dimitri just nodded, Sylvain’s longer arms wrapped around him as he lifted his head from his friend’s chest. Sylvain was by far the best among them at the act of comfort. Sure, he often misused his powers of charm, but when it came down to it, he could soothe a raging wyvern with a smile. Dimitri felt safe here, with Ingrid giving him little encouraging smiles, and Felix sitting so close to him. Dedue hadn’t been shunted aside, but he didn’t know them, so he sat in the armchair in the corner of the room while the other four had dragged the blankets and pillows to the rug by the remnants of last night’s fire.

The healer closed the door and rolled up his sleeves as he knelt next to Dimitri, not wanting to make him move when he must be in too much misery to move. He checked the burns he’d sustained; pink and raw, but they would certainly heal. The man glanced at Dedue in the corner. “Is there… any way I could check your friend? He seems like he also needs attention…”

Dimitri looked up, lifted his soft chin and looked plaintively at Dedue. He had managed, during their sleepless night, to suss out his name, but Dedue seemed none too keen to talk any more than that.

“Dedue?”

The young man looked up.

Dimitri smiled; a tiny, fragile, breakable smile. “Would you consent to be healed?”

Again, even though the words themselves were just noises to him, Dimitri’s eyes somehow conveyed his meaning as though he were projecting his intent directly to his mind. But Dedue curled his arms around himself in the armchair and looked away. He didn’t intend to live much longer. What was the point? As if one could erase his sins like scars, running away hand in hand with the enemy while his sister burned…

Dimitri looked at Cornelius. “Could you please come back later?” Dedue wasn’t the only one enthralled by the power of his eyes. Cornelius looked into them and nodded. The Prince was impossible to deny.

“Of course, Your Highness.”

“Wait…” Dimitri placed a staying hand on Cornelius’. “What’s going on out there? Who is ruling the people?” He looked concerned, and for good reason. His father had vehemently instilled the ideal of people in need of a leader into his son since he was an infant. Dimitri worried they were running amok without someone to shepherd them. He did not yet understand the strength of people.

Cornelius smiled and touched the back of his hand. “Everything is fine, Your Highness. Your uncle has taken charge for now. He will act as the regent until you’re of--”

_ “No.” _

Cornelius stopped short, unblinking as Dimitri’s gentle expression became one of hatred and even  _ violence.  _ “I will not have that man lead the people. He thinks of nothing but himself. Is there no one else who could be a regent?”

Cornelius swallowed. He’d never seen such a look in the compassionate prince who’d once begged to be taught how to sew. “I… I will ask the advisors to come. I’m only a healer, after all.”

Dimitri softened once more, and perhaps it was all the priest’s imagination that there had been some dark  _ beast  _ lurking in him. “Very well. Thank you.”

Sylvain squeezed Dimitri’s slender little shoulders. “Don’t worry,” he said easily as the door came to click closed once more. “I’m sure there’s tons of capable people who can lead the Kingdom while you’re still learning.” Ingrid and Felix exchanged a look. Somehow, they didn’t think so.

* * *

It was not advised that the Prince leave his room so soon after the death of his parents, but he left anyway, his friends trailing behind him at dusk while Dedue stayed behind, still unspeaking. Normally a quad of children roaming around would have been ignored or even scolded, but these weren’t just any children after all. The people bowed and murmured condolences to the prince as he passed, and each time, he just nodded at them, solemn and perhaps a bit too adult for his age.

His Uncle and the late King’s older brother Rufus was already seated on the throne when Dimitri arrived, having a heated argument with the royal advisors and others who were loyal to Lambert. Everyone turned when the great doors swung forward to admit the prince and his little retinue of noble children. Rufus frowned, but he stood up to greet him a bit too quickly. “Prince Dimitri, you should be resting,” he insisted, shooting a glare at Cornelius off to his left as if this were somehow his fault.

“Thank you, Uncle,” Dimitri said calmly. “But one can only rest for so long when there is work to be done.”

The advisors and the rest bowed to Dimitri, all seeming at once relieved and concerned in regards to his presence. But he was not here to be bowed at and deferred to. Not without reason, not without discussion. He took a seat at the table in a chair that was far too big for him, and his friends all crowded behind him.

Rufus’ scowl deepened. “I don’t think this is the appropriate place for children right now.”

Dimitri’s eyes flashed. “Do not presume we are mere children, Uncle. We have a vested interest in the future of this nation, even if we were not the children of kings or noblemen.” He looked around at Rodrigue, at Glenn, Gustave, Margrave Gautier, Count Galatea, the others who were so loyal to his father and had to wonder. “Furthermore, you are not qualified to lead this Kingdom. Step down, Uncle. The throne does not belong to you.”

Rufus’ face went from pale like Dimitri’s to red and blotchy in a mere moment. “How  _ dare  _ you?” he hissed, gripping the arms of the throne tightly, as if he’d die before letting go of it. “You are a mere  _ child,  _ do you think  _ you  _ are qualified to rule?”

“Not at all,” Dimitri said calmly. If he was honest, he never wanted that responsibility. “But I know exactly what you will do with the power you would wield as King. You will continue to rain destruction down on Duscur.”

“After they  **_murdered_ ** the King and Queen!” Rufus spluttered. At this point, while advisors would normally interject with thoughts of their own, they kept silent, intrigued by this fight between a stoic child and his power-lusting Uncle. “Of  _ course  _ we will destroy them! We should!”

“No,” Dimitri said, not rising to his bait at all. “Faerghus invaded Duscur at my father’s command. Ten years ago, it was Sreng that we annexed half of.  _ We  _ are the oppressors, Uncle. And we should be speaking of peace.” He gestured to the advisors. Glenn was actually smiling at him, nodding in encouragement. “Peace is difficult to achieve after all we’ve done. We’ll need to make reparations, and it won’t make up for half the things we have taken from Sreng and Duscur. It is no wonder the Leicester Alliance doesn’t wish to trade with us. We are warmongers.”

Rufus jabbed an accusing finger at him as if it were a knife. “You have forgotten your own father’s sacrifice, your stepmother’s!”

_ “No,”  _ Dimitri cried this time, loosing a bit of the beast within him. It was not a beast of fury, but of pain. “I…” Tears welled up in his eyes again and he bowed his head, biting his lip. No… if he cried now, they wouldn’t take him seriously, and then Rufus would rule and grind Duscur into dust...

“Shut the hell up,” Felix suddenly snapped from behind Dimitri’s chair, drawing everyone’s eyes to him. He was small for a thirteen-year-old, but he was larger than life when he spoke, every single time. And it was usually to come to Dimitri’s defense, one of his most beloved friends. “You old fucks just want to wage war! You’re the same advisors who told the King he  _ should  _ go grab Sreng and Duscur,  _ you’re  _ the ones who got them killed!”

_ “Felix,”  _ Rodrigue hissed down the table, but his feisty son would not be silenced.

“When you pick a fight, you have to be ready to die,” Felix growled. “How many more are we going to kill until you’re satisfied? Is a bit of land worth killing and dying for?”

Dimitri’s eyes shone as his friends, one by one, came to his defense.

“No one wants to live their whole lives fearing being sent to war,” Ingrid butted in.

“And what is the point of living a whole life fighting?” Sylvain demanded, crossing his arms. He looked a little more intimidating than the rest, given he was older than his friends. “I bet if you asked the people, they wouldn’t want to!”

The youngest advisor at the table was Glenn, but then, he wasn’t actually an appointed advisor. He just sat by his father’s side. The  _ real  _ youngest was a woman of half-Srengi descent named Tarim. King Lambert had appointed her at the request of Rodrigue, given that Tarim was a distant cousin of his late wife’s. But Lambert had never once listened to her, despite how intelligent and productive she was. Since her appointment, she’d learned to just be silent--but here she sensed, in front of the Prince, her ideas might have some merit with the audience.

“Your Highness,” she said quietly, directing her voice to Dimitri. “I wholeheartedly agree with you. From a strictly practical standpoint, even if we were trying to bring more fertile land to Faerghus’ borders, the army has been burning the land along the way.” She flinched when Rufus and some of the older councilors glared at her, but Dimitri smiled, wiping his eyes on his sleeve.

“Yes… you’re right. I have seen it myself first hand.” He frowned at the rest of them. “That stops  _ today.  _ Who else could be an effective Regent?”

_ “I am the only one of the Blaiddyd bloodline!”  _ Rufus spat, clearly hedging on madness. “There is no one else who is closer to the throne than I am!”

“Unfortunately,” Gustave spoke up solemnly. “He’s right, Prince Dimitri. Until you come of age, no one is suited to the role but your Uncle.”

Silence fell as Rufus sat back, pleased with himself.

“Well…” Dimitri drew himself up but it didn’t make him look much taller. “Why can’t I take the throne?”

The silence was now more stunned than resigned.

“It is custom to wait until your adulthood,” Rodrigue said slowly.

“Is there an actual law in place?” Dimitri retorted. Rodrigue glanced at the other council members, then shook his head. “Then I would posit that there is no one closer to the throne than  _ I  _ am.”

“Right,” Rufus sneered, shaking his head. “Then let us vote, shall we? Letting a mere  _ child  _ rule should be an interesting choice, shouldn’t it?” Clearly, he expected to win the majority vote. When he did not, he practically exploded in fury as he stormed from the throne room. Dimitri smiled at Tarim, who was the tiebreaker. The older advisors seemed to favor Rufus’ idea of continuing the ruination of Duscur and the occupation of Sreng, but Dimitri remembered their faces. Old men, all of them. He would change that.

* * *

  
Dimitri didn’t want to be crowned King. But without a coronation, his ideals of peace couldn’t be put into practice and would just be considered naive notions to be passed from the lips of the young and inexperienced. He had to prove that peace was more than a fantasy. He paced nervously in front of an enormous mirror two days later, fussing with the fur cape and the braid Ingrid had woven into his long hair.

“Knock knock,” Sylvain called, smiling as he sauntered into the room. “Aw, look at how handsome you are, Your Royal Majesty.” He bowed in an exaggerated fashion and laughed at himself. “Hey, don’t look so nervous. Everyone’s prepared to guard you with their lives.”

Dimitri balked. That was the sort of thing he didn’t need to hear. “I want to create a world where no one would  _ have _ to,” he mumbled. As if he wanted anyone to die for him.

“I know.” Sylvain came forward and laid his hands on his shoulders, squeezing gently. “That’s what I like best about you, Mitya. You’re good, you’re  _ kind. _ We’ll all be much better off when you’re King.”

Dimitri tried not to blush when Sylvain touched him, but it was difficult. The young Gautier had just presented, so his newly minted alpha hormones wafted through the air every time he breathed or tossed his apple-red hair. But Dimitri had bigger things to worry about anyway. “You really think I can do this?” he asked, sounding so much smaller and less confident than he had in the throne room.

“I  _ know  _ you can,” Sylvain whispered, giving him that cool, lopsided smile that always put everyone around him at ease. “And you won’t be alone. We’re all here to help. Even my cranky father!”

Dimitri turned around in his arms and embraced him. “You… won’t abandon me?”

Sylvain was genuinely shocked. “As if I would!” he interjected and returned the hug twice as hard. He laughed when Dimitri squeezed and lifted him off the floor. “Easy there, big guy! You forget your own strength too easily.” He ruffled Dimitri’s hair, pecked him on the cheek, and departed to find his allotted place in the coronation. Dimitri looked in the mirror again and touched his cheek where Sylvain had kissed him.

His parents were gone. He was unbearably sad--but they hadn’t been good people. They had loved him, but they hadn’t done good things for the world. It almost felt like he  _ shouldn’t  _ be missing them. He didn’t know how to manage it, these feelings of turmoil that he felt might crack his lips open, but he knew he didn’t have to manage it alone. In his room, tucked away and refusing to eat or speak or sleep was Dedue. Was he wrong in saving him? Dedue had no one now. Was a life with no one more cruel than a swift and merciful death?

Even walking down the carpeted aisle holding the scepter and case, aware of all the eyes watching him with love and malice and pity, he knew he could never just worry about one man as the King. And he would do it anyway. He would worry about every single one of them, from the poorest farmer to the wealthiest noble, citizen to foreigner, man to woman, alpha to omega, adult to child.

He did not kneel to take the crown without speaking. It was tradition to speak  _ after  _ he was crowned, not before, but he aimed to cast off the shackles of those traditions.

“When I was in Duscur, the spirits gave me a vision,” he said strongly over the crowd. His eyes, which had just begun to blue again, darkened deeply, a sharp and bewitchingly ugly contrast to the rest of his paleness. His people gasped, and a word went round and round like a cyclone of unstoppable wind.  _ Spirit-sighted. _ “And they showed me a world much like this one, covered in death.” He held the scepter high. “And I will do all that is within my power to prevent it!”

When he finally knelt and the coronet of gold was placed on his brow, a chorus of  **_hail hail_ ** rang throughout the hall. Those who had come in disbelief and doubt in the child now feared and respected him. The spirits had chosen him, they had seen the proof of it in his changing eyes.

Later that night, when Rufus tried to stab Dimitri in his bed, the beast of grief returned to him only for a moment.

“I’m sorry stepmother, father,” he murmured as Glenn, his personal bodyguard, gutted Rufus through. “I will commit peace to my heart this time.”

_ This time.  _

* * *

Dedue watched what little he could glimpse of everything that was happening from Dimitri’s room, meaning that he listened when Dimitri talked to him, and understood things through the spirits that darkened his eyes, even while he was pondering why he was still alive. He never spoke back to Dimitri. He’d never been a very talkative person before, but he had been happy at least. Now he didn’t have that. But somehow, watching Dimitri return to his room and dress for bed, listening to him have frustrated, one-sided conversations with himself about how difficult it was to stop a war, it was soothing in a way.

And many nights, when Dedue sat by his bed, Dimitri would smile and take his hand, and fall asleep while still holding it. Dedue just gazed at their locked fingers. His sister used to hold his hand. But Dimitri was not his sister, was nothing like his loud, rambunctious, and resilient sister. So why was holding his hand so grounding?

Glenn, who watched over Dimitri while he slept, had tried to talk to Dedue, but to no avail. He managed to communicate via hand gesture well enough when he asked Dedue to move aside so he could check Dimitri’s breathing or glanced down at a noise that came through the window. Dedue paid him no mind. He paid no mind to anyone at all except Dimitri.

“I didn’t even know how well we ate,” Dimitri said one night, climbing under the covers and reaching for Dedue’s hand. “It wasn’t even like we  _ needed  _ more land to grow on.” He shook his head. “Tarim says that it seems we annexed Sreng because of a small incident where they passed through our territory without knowing. And she said they had no concept of borders… that’s nice, isn’t it?” he yawned, laying back on the pillows, which a maid had fluffed for him already. “I wish we didn’t need borders. But imagine taking away someone’s home just because they accidentally crossed into yours?”

Dedue just looked at their hands, understanding only what Dimitri’s spirit eyes allowed him to--which was to say, only large concepts and the recognition of the word ‘Sreng.’

“Dedue?”

He looked up miserably.

Dimitri patted his bed. “Will you sleep next to me? This bed is large enough for two. Probably four people, honestly. It’s… a bit much, I think. Might as well use it.”

Dedue hesitated. It wasn’t the first time Dimitri had asked, but he had always declined. Why? Why bother doing or not doing anything? He was dead inside. He climbed awkwardly onto the bed and lay there, still holding Dimitri’s hand, close enough to feel the prince’s warm breath as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

“You want to send  _ horses  _ to Duscur?” the old advisor exclaimed, laying the parchment down. “Your Majesty,  _ why?” _

Dimitri still didn’t like sitting in his father’s throne, so he just sat at the head of the table with everyone else. He’d also declined to wear the heavy crown. Aside from the fact that it was made for adults, he just felt so pompous wearing it. “Well,” he said, gesturing at Tarim. “It was her idea. A  _ good  _ idea. We’re sending them food, but if we send some horses to plow for them, then they could grow their own food eventually.”

The advisor sniffed, frowning. “Regardless, this is almost a tenth of our cavalry, Your Majesty. We can’t spare that many.”

“Of course we can,” Dimitri shot back, lifting his chin in what he hoped was an authoritative fashion. “Since the cavalry will be cut down anyway, I see no reason why we couldn’t.”

That was the part the advisors hated the most; cutting down their impressive army. They called their forces  _ necessity,  _ but the rest of the world called them  _ brutish,  _ and it was obvious even to Dimitri, as a child, why. So much of their funds, their food, their clean water, their housing, their teachers went into the enormous machine of their military. Rodrigue and Margrave Gautier were more practical, reminding Dimitri that  _ some  _ defenses were always necessary, but what they had was excessive to the extreme.

The remaining advisors withheld their comments. Dimitri had already dismissed two of the older and more crude of their council for spewing hatred and refusing to see reason when it came to opening their borders to trade, marking all outsiders as thieves and swindlers. Even  _ terrorists.  _

“Right, so it’s done,” Dimitri smiled, signing his name on the document and reaching for his signet ring (another thing he hated to wear) to mark the wax with his father’s seal.

The meeting was done for the day and he was so exhausted. But he’d done it. After an hour of fighting, he’d managed to send healers, food, building materials, and horses to Duscur. For an hour before that, he listened to Tarim dictate what it was likely that the Sreng people would need. They’d have to work on it tomorrow.

“Done for the day?” Felix asked Dimitri a bit anxiously when he finally walked out of the throne room. Felix was always waiting for him, and Dimitri adored that about him. Like Glenn, Felix had a sharp tongue, but when it came to Dimitri, Ingrid, and Sylvain, Felix was always following them around, and was even known to sulk when he had to go home to the Fraldarius Estate.

“Yes,” Dimitri nodded. “Do you want to train?” Felix’s eager nod told him everything. “Okay, but let me get something to eat first.”

Felix followed him to the kitchens, where the servants greeted their littlest King with coos, fussing over him. “So thin, have you eaten today?” “We have sweet buns for you!” “You must have had a long day, haven’t you? Here, eat!”

A part of Dimitri was a little annoyed that they treated him like a child. But he never complained, because he knew he  _ was  _ one. “Sweet buns!” he gasped. “Thank you, Matilda!” He eagerly tucked in, his stomach growling. There was so much work to do, but he wanted to do it. He couldn’t bear to think what might have happened to Duscur or Sreng if his Uncle had become King. “Felix, do you want…? Oh, right, you don’t like sweets.”

“I already ate,” Felix shook his head. Dimitri was halfway into his second bun when Felix impatiently tugged on his sleeve. “Come  _ on,”  _ he begged with his infamous pout. Dimitri couldn’t help but oblige him.

“Hey Felix?” Dimitri asked, both of them panting and coated in sweat as they sat down to break from an hour of swinging heavy wooden swords. “Do you think I should stop training?”

_ “What?”  _ Felix snapped, alarmed. “Why?”

“Well, I was thinking,” Dimitri chewed his lip nervously. “I mean, I’m trying to make Faerghus a peaceful country. Some people will always be needed to fight, but shouldn’t I set the example and be more, I don’t know… peaceful?” He shrugged. “I don’t know… father always said that a King has to set an example for his subjects.”

Felix frowned. “I mean… I guess.” This time with Dimitri was all he had anymore now that he was a busy King. He was not thrilled at the prospect of giving it up. “But you’re the King… people will come after you,” he tried to reason.

“But that’s why I have guards like Glenn,” Dimitri pointed out.

“But what if Glenn fails?” Felix retorted in haste.

A dark look crossed over Dimitri’s eyes, and they changed from blue to shadow. Felix  _ hated  _ this new power of his. He preferred Dimitri as he was. “How could you say that about your own brother?” Dimitri asked sadly. “If Glenn gets hurt, it would be all my fault.”

Felix hadn’t meant for Glenn to get hurt in this scenario. It almost sounded like Dimitri was speaking from experience. Maybe he was remembering his parents’ deaths. “No, I just mean… What if you’re alone? Or Glenn isn’t around?”

Dimitri sighed, and his eyes changed back, thank heaven. Felix didn’t like to see him like that at all, like something was clawing its way out of him. “I suppose… I suppose I should be ready to fight for my people, right?” He smiled, a little shaky. “I mean for all the bad he did, at least my father believed he should fight alongside his soldiers.”

“Yeah!” Felix insisted, nodding sharply. It seemed he wouldn’t lose Dimitri as a sparring partner after all. “But you’ll still never beat me!” he sniffed, puffing out his slender chest proudly.

Dimitri laughed then, genuine and bright. Something in Felix’s heart turned over. “You’re right… You’re too good, Fe,” Dimitri shook his head.

Felix didn’t know why, but he suddenly leaned close, the seriousness of his amber eyes hard and impervious to weathering. “But it doesn’t matter, because I’ll protect you!” he swore. “Always! You won’t ever  _ have  _ to be better than me, because I’ll always be at your side!”

Dimitri had not forgotten the talk that Glenn had with him. That one day, he’d be taking over his father’s Dukedom, and that Felix would then be Dimitri’s personal guard for the rest of his days. Honestly, it was something that both warmed him to know Felix would always be close, and chilled him to know that Felix might perish in defense of him.

“Felix,” Dimitri returned with equal sincerity as he picked up his friend’s already calloused hands. “I always want you by my side.” He kissed his knuckles like he had seen knights do for their lovers. “Promise me you won’t die before me.”

Felix knew he couldn’t make that promise. He was to be Dimitri’s guard after all. It would literally be his job to die before his King should the worst happen. But everything turned rosy and cloyingly sweet when Dimitri held his hands like this, so he made that irresponsible promise.

“I promise.”

* * *

Dimitri woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of shuffling. Panicked, he sat upright and tried to clear the sleep from his eyes, somehow making his vision even blurrier. “Glenn?” he asked the dark room, fearful.

“It’s all right, Your Majesty,” Glenn reassured him, a voice in the dark to his right. “Go back to sleep.”

Dimitri squinted as the embers of his dying fire barely lit the room. Dedue was the one moving around, dragging his feet miserably, poking at the embers with the iron.

“Dedue?” He got out of bed and shivered as his bare feet slapped the ground. He padded over to him anyway. “Dedue, what’s wrong? Are you cold?”

Dedue looked up at him and shook his head. “No.”  _ No.  _ His first word in the past two weeks. And it was in Dimitri’s language, too, although admittedly it wasn’t the most difficult word to pick up.

Dimitri tilted his head to one side. “Hungry? Hurting?”

“No.”

Dimitri had to wonder if he actually understood or if he was just saying ‘no’ on principle. “Dedue…” he crouched down beside him, watching him try to reignite the fire to no avail. “Um… I can fetch more wood if you want.”

“No need,” Dedue said, effectively doubling his Faerghus vocabulary.

Dimitri floundered in his helplessness for a while before he reached out and took Dedue’s hand tightly, clasping his smaller fist around Dedue’s on the iron poker.

“Do you want to go home? Do you want to go back to Duscur?”

Dedue didn’t answer this time. He didn’t say no.

“I’ll take you home if you want,” Dimitri promised, so soft but so honest. “I’ll go with you. We can help rebuild Duscur together.”

Did Dedue even want that? Did he want to return to ruins, knowing it would never be quite the same as it was before they came? This king--he was the son of his enemies. The son of the man who slaughtered Duscur’s children, burned their plains, and razed the villages to the dust. How could it be that Dimitri’s hand now felt so out of place anywhere but in his grip? What had he been living for? To hold his hand? Certainly anyone would agree that was foolish.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I want… to go home.”

He’d been listening to more of their language than he let on.

Six days later, the caravan with the horses, healers, and supplies for Duscur was ready to leave, and Dimitri and Dedue were going north with it. It was a heavily armed caravan now, since they were sending their little King. Felix pretended not to pout when he wasn’t allowed to come, and Ingrid had made Dimitri promise to come back safely. But Glenn was at his side, and he was not worried about anything but seeing the place where so many died again.

The heaps that had once been blazing bodies were now heaps of half-rotted, half-scorched flesh picked apart by ravenous birds. As cleansing as the fire had seemed that night, it left a horrific mess in its wake. Predictably, there were no Duscur people around. But Dimitri stopped the caravan anyway, allowing Dedue to get off.

What exactly was Dedue looking for? He was ashamed to say he didn’t even remember in which pile his sister had burned her last and become sparks. Besides, it wasn’t her body Dedue was looking for, he was sure of that. Once she was burned to the spirit world, her body was nothing. Just food for the scavengers who came.

Dimitri followed him and, at a distance, so did Glenn. It was insufferable. Dedue finally turned around and glared at them both, stopping the King in his tracks.

“Do you want us to leave you here?” Dimitri asked quietly. At Dedue’s continuing stare, he bowed his head. Who was he to command him to come with them? To not hurt himself? To value his life? For all Dimitri knew, Dedue was looking for the half a spear he’d almost killed himself with that night. But he could not make the decision for him, to live or to die. He couldn’t possibly imagine how Dedue must be feeling. And at thirteen, he shouldn’t have to. “We’ll pick you up on the way back,” he whispered, turning back to the caravan.

It continued north without Dedue.

What should he do? There was nothing but rubble to sift through, but he sifted anyway. There was no one to wander beside but the odd wolf or mangy dog who had likely escaped the carnage, only to return and find  _ this.  _ He walked the length of his village many times, searching for something that seemed impossible to find.

A reason to live, perhaps. To keep going. He hated Faerghus. He hated them all. Filthy murderers, plundering and killing, and all for what? His family, his friends, his  _ sister…  _ They were all gone. All of Dedue’s plans for the future had involved them. Could he stomach finding a new one? He doubted he could.

He wanted to hate Dimitri too. But that was harder.

When the caravan returned by nightfall, having delivered the supplies and horses to the north where the terrified remnants of Duscur still lived, it stopped to let Dimitri and Glenn off. Dedue did not make himself difficult to find, sitting in the center of the destruction. He’d spent hours there, and not a single thing had become clearer. If anything, he felt more lost.

He felt Dimitri behind him. “I will stay,” Dedue said to him, and though he spoke in his own language, in the tongue of his homeland, he knew that Dimitri would understand.

“I thought you might,” Dimitri told him gently. He called Glenn over, leading a sweet horse, a pack of rations, and a canteen of water. They were placed at Dedue’s side, the mare sniffing him curiously. “The next village is only a few hours north of here,” Dimitri told him. “I’m sure they’d be happy to take you in.”

He paused. He didn’t want to leave Dedue here. But he couldn’t stay, and he couldn’t force Dedue to come with him. Finally, he reached down one final time and brushed his hand over Dedue’s, asking permission. After a moment of hesitation, Dedue reached up, and allowed their hands to intertwine for a moment. No matter what, he would always associate holding Dimitri’s hand with the relief of watching his sister flee this world of pain.

“Goodbye,” Dimitri whispered, and squeezed his hand once, only letting it fall when Dedue was ready to let go.

When the caravan left for Faerghus, it took the King with it, but not Dedue.


	3. Childhood Passing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing is easy for a child King, not even the ordinary. He's growing up fast and he can't stop time; but his friends seem to be growing faster than he is.
> 
> Meanwhile, Felix has a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this chapter: a BRIEF mention of sexual content, a BRIEF mention of blood, many Dimitri sobs
> 
> Feel free to follow me @Mechanist_Macha

Without Dedue, nothing changed. Everything changed.

No one held Dimitri’s hand; no one really thought to. Faerghus was a culture of deprivation and restraint, carefully cultivated to ensure that the moments of freeing oneself from restriction were special. But honestly, Dimitri hated this. He didn’t know how to ask for it, so his life kept changing and sometimes, under a table, he’d hold his own hand. But no one else but his friends knew Dedue was gone. They hadn’t even known a Duscur child to be here at all.

This wasn’t healthy. He had to find something to do with these hands, something that was more than simply gripping a weapon for the sake of his people (and Felix).

Sewing did not come easily to the young King. He watched diligently as a servant, who frequently worked to patch tears in palace uniforms, wove the needle through the thread as easily as a spider wove together a nest of silk. He was envious of her small, delicate hands; though he was only thirteen, Dimitri's body boasted every available sign that he would grow to be as large and broad as his father before him. Holding a sewing needle proved to be a task in and of itself, much less threading it and guiding it gently through the cloth. 

It was frustrating. He'd never quite noticed this incompetency in himself before. Sewing was not considered the work of a man, much less the work of a King. This, he did not understand, but all in all led to him having never been schooled in the art. When he was not attending dull meetings with adults who looked down on him or training with Felix who always beat him, Dimitri came into the room of the tailor (a busy department at all hours of the day and night) and just marveled at the intricate workings of those who embroidered. 

Embroidery was even more fascinating to him. While Dimitri could not complete even the simple act of repairing a rip without reducing a shirt to a rag, he imagined himself sewing intricate designs of dark blue and bright gold into his own garments.

His stepmother spent a lot of time here with the tailors and seamstresses, talking and laughing as she busied her hands. While she was as damaging a swordswoman as her husband, she could also create such brilliant flowers in the hem of a cape that others would marvel and sigh. Dimitri had always longed for this ability, but half the time just trying to thread a needle caused it to snap in his hands under intense concentration, a remnant of what his father had called 'the Old Magic,' passed down to Dimitri through his Blaiddyd blood. 

He did not want it, but he supposed he should be grateful. After all, it had significant advantages for him in battle. And while he was no stranger to lifting a sword, without this Old Magic that rushed through him, he would have been knocked aside by the trained soldier that almost killed Dedue. 

Dedue… Dimitri wondered what he was doing right then. He had left him back in Duscur, as was his wish. He had kept him alive and safe for a few weeks, but ultimately, the choice to continue living was up to him.

The choice to continue living was part of what brought Dimitri here every day, to watch them embroider. To _make_ something, rather than to destroy. In the end, his mother and father had decided to throw their lives away in pursuit of mindless gain. They pursued the destruction of the innocent and themselves. But Dimitri still missed them. Still missed the way his stepmother would smile and set aside her sewing to hold him in her lap. Still missed the way his father would guide him through his history books and direct his feet in swordplay.

"Your Majesty," one girl asked sweetly. She was taller than he was, so she must be older, like Sylvain, he reasoned. "You come here almost every night. Could it be that you wish to learn?" 

Dimitri looked up at the sweet-faced girl and nodded. He was embarrassed by this admission because every single bit of his upbringing told him he should be. But he wanted to, and besides, there were other men here too. Why should he not learn?

"I… do," he confessed quietly, slumping a bit in his chair, very unkingly behavior. "But learning is impossible for me. I have tried many times."

"Oh dear," she smiled, not a bit of it wavering. She somehow reminded him of cake, each bite sweeter than the last. "Well that attitude certainly won't do! We must always strive to be our best selves, shouldn't we? That means we mustn't give up, even in the face of failure."

The others who were working around them looked at her in surprise, but Dimitri couldn't fathom that she had said anything strange (more likely, they just didn't think she should be approaching the King so boldly). He looked up at her and thought that what she said made sense, and she was older and she was gentle, which drew him in like she was his stepmother. Well, perhaps an older sister. She was far too young to be his stepmother.

She held out a needle for him. "Have you threaded it before?" 

"Um…" he started, already hesitant. "Once. But then the thread fell out and I couldn't fix it again." He blushed a little scarlet as if he hadn't meant to tell her that. But she was only smiling. 

"That's okay. It can be quite difficult, even for someone experienced. Let me show you a trick," she offered, and gave the thin thread a little bit of a loop and kissed her fingers to dampen the frayed edges. "That should make it easier. Give it a try!" Under her tender gaze, Dimitri fumbled to thread a needle, astounded with her patience when it took him minutes to perform this simple feat; _unfailingly_ patient, a fact he found rather soothing. And when he had finally done it, she gave a little clap of her hands in excitement for him. "Oh, what a good job! It will become easier, Your Majesty, I promise. Just stick with it, and you'll be a natural in no time!" 

That was how he came to befriend Mercedes. Three or four times a week, just before dinner, the young King came down to the mending room (with the ever-watchful Glenn) and listened to her talk away as she taught him to sew. She had come to the palace with her mother and brother, and was learning to become a priestess. She spoke an awful lot of the kindness of mother earth and the sweetness of her younger brother, whom Dimitri had not met. And he listened. He didn't have much interesting to tell her, but in this way, she filled a strange void for him, one he wasn't aware he possessed. 

She acted like a big sister, which was sort of like a stepmother, he supposed, only without any of the scolding. He didn't need it anyway; for a king, he was rather obedient to her, and even though she had no practical authority over him, she acted like she did in the best way. It was never demanding or authoritarian, just an unobtrusive and guiding hand in a way that Patricia and Lambert had never been for him. Mercedes would even kiss his forehead and tell him what a good job he did every time, no matter how ugly his work was or when he snapped no less than _five_ sewing needles and two pairs of scissors in one night. And she never took the tools away from him, never insisted she do it instead. That was the kindest thing.

It was the combination of having so much to do and the presence of his friends, old and new, that kept the grief from seeping into the confines of Dimitri’s heart. He could cry and be miserable over the loss of his parents, and he often did, but he was rarely alone, and he couldn't be left to sulk either. It was a blessing, really, even sometimes being woken with some emergency message or another, disturbing his nightmares and refusing to let them settle into the corners of his mind and make a home there.

Felix did not understand his new hobby at all. When Dimitri showed him the clumsy flower he had embroidered, he demanded to know why Dimitri was wasting his time with it instead of practicing with his sword, 'which you so obviously need.' Dimitri had cried, and Felix shut up pretty quickly after that, muttering apologies and struggling to find something to compliment about the piece before trying to soothe him with an awkward and unpracticed hug. Felix may not understand why Dimitri was sewing, but he realized that it made him happy, and that was the end of that debate.

Once or twice, Felix even went with him to the mending room to see what the fuss was about. Indeed, the activity was too boring and required too much patience for someone like Felix, who rarely liked to be seated for more than five minutes at a time. But he discovered more and more reasons why he couldn't be there anyhow. At thirteen, when his body was changing and his hormones were blossoming in uncomfortable ways, watching Dimitri focus so intently on such a gentle project was… stifling to say the least. The way he smiled when he threaded the needle on the first try, the way he tilted the soft curve of his chin while he worked, the gentle brush of his lashes as he concentrated on making a perfect flower--it was too much to bear. Felix made up many complaints about why he hated the mending room, but the truth of the matter was that he couldn't stand sitting next to Dimitri while he was being so pretty and soft and _perfect,_ curse him.

"Well, I think it's great," Sylvain beamed, holding up the little square of fabric that Dimitri was practicing his stitching on. "Boys _and_ girls always appreciate someone with skilled hands, Mitya. You're going to have them lined up outside the throne room when you're older," he winked. Dimitri fidgeted at the table as he took the square back; trust Sylvain to make this new hobby into some sort of effort to romance people. Of course, with the King's deep-rooted crush on Sylvain, he had stammered his way through his gratitude when Sylvain praised him. He often saw Sylvain with many others of late; young maids and other staff members who were clearly interested in him. And he was forever smiling and chatting, so charming in a way that his younger, unpresented friends just couldn't quite grasp. 

Ingrid presented first after Sylvain, which wasn't that much of a surprise. This _was_ around the time that their bodies would transform. To nobody's surprise, she was a beta, much too aggressive to be an omega, but still composed and level-headed enough that alpha didn't make much sense either. Honestly, she was relieved. Though to present as an alpha or an omega was rare and highly prized in different ways, she was more than happy not to be undergoing the quarterly heat or rut cycles of one or the other. 

Which made Felix's presentation that much more difficult. Despite the fact that he insisted it was no big deal and should go unnoticed in the grand scheme of things, Glenn and Rodrigue were just so proud of him presenting as an alpha that he began to avoid them as much as possible. 

Unfortunately, though Felix had been the one to say it was 'no big deal' over and over again, he stopped hanging around Dimitri as much, a sting that Dimitri never weathered properly. He supposed that Felix would want to go spend time with omegas, as alphas often did, but Felix and Sylvain started being seen together more and more, both of whom were suddenly too busy for him whenever Dimitri came around.

Ingrid remained, and Dimitri was grateful for her, but it wasn't the same. 

And as the months went by, he did _not_ present. It was isolating to say the least, watching his friends grow up without him, and being left behind. Being the King didn't mean that he got any special attention from his friends, and since he'd been doing better, it seemed they thought he was over the tragic death of his parents.

Life went on, Dimitri learned, but that didn't mean their tacit rejections of his company hurt any less.

He spent less time training, and more time with Mercedes.

It was difficult to incorporate his love of competition into this new craft. When training with Felix, that rush of desire to _win_ consumed him, but he was actually _good_ at swinging and stabbing with a lance. Though he settled into being passably competent with needle and thread after a few months, there was no way in hell he'd be able to compete with any of them, which made it a sort of lonely sport. Of course he had Mercedes, and a few of the others talked with him as well, but the thrill of battle, of sweat and blood, had been groomed into him by his father, by Glenn and Felix--this new hobby was lacking in that department. 

He tried to sew faster, to beat himself in a race against how long it usually took him to complete a flower. But in the end, all that did was earn him more stabbed fingers and more broken needles. He tried to go slowly, to make the absolute _best_ flower, but he just didn't yet have the eye for it and that ended up being very frustrating, looking at everyone else's work and seeing he was miles away from even basic competency. So he tried to make the most creative designs. Most of the time it was a waste of good thread and the entire piece ended up very garish and rainbow in the worst way. 

Mercedes tried to console him, to explain that competition could not be forcibly injected into every craft. "And after all, it's only been a few months," she said gently. "You're not quite there yet."

For a while after that, he stopped sewing. His hands sort of ached anyway from repeat stabbings in the pads of his thumbs. In what little free time he had, he would read with Ingrid or ask her to spar. She was always willing, of course, but while he was no match for her on horseback, the Old Magic would always flare up and he'd end up hurting her. After a few close calls, he decided it was not worth it, to hurt his dear friend for the sake of something fulfilling.

It wasn't as though the Old Magic didn't take over him when sparring with Felix, but Felix used a sword, was quick and dexterous, able to get away every single time. Dimitri had never once hurt him. And besides, Felix had Old Magic of his own coursing through his veins, and it aided him in many ways, making him swifter and more agile. It was even more powerful than Dimitri’s, Glenn once remarked with no small amount of pride.

Dimitri missed them, missed when Felix would wait outside the throne room and drag him to the training grounds. He missed when Sylvain would hang out with him at mealtimes and tease him, even if it hit too close to the mark more than half the time. Becoming King hadn't stopped them from from being around him; their own damned maturation had. He couldn't blame them for that, and he didn't, but he was so, so lonely. So unfulfilled. He kept wishing for his body to change, lying awake and _willing_ it to transform, for his hormones to take over and make something happen. At least _then_ he'd have something to talk about with them, the excuse of asking questions about their own experiences. Because lately, when he asked Felix if he wanted to spar or asked Sylvain if he wanted to get something to eat, they were both 'too busy.'

Too busy with what? If he was the King and _he_ could find time, why couldn't they?

He found out in the worst way what kept them back from being near him. He had made his way to the training grounds, hoping maybe to catch Felix there. After all, Felix often responded to his requests with 'I've already finished training,' so maybe if he went a little earlier, he could catch them.

Glenn had stopped in the hallway to chat with a knight and Dimitri had gone on ahead. Glenn was usually a stickler for being _right_ by his side at all times (even purchasing an expensive arcane artifact, a ring which deprived his body of exhaustion), but in the past few weeks, he'd relaxed a little bit. Nothing untoward had happened and the Kingdom was settling down again, rebuilding itself in new interests now that their sons and daughters were not being sent off to battle at any given moment.

Dimitri stepped onto the training grounds. This one, the one he knew, was private, for the nobles and the Knights. Soldiers and other warriors trained out near the barracks and were never empty, but Dimitri often found himself alone here (not the least of which was because someone who might be training left quickly when he arrived). But he heard something strange in the armory shed, the sound of a heavy breathing. He didn't understand what he was hearing, he didn't know, and thinking someone wounded, he rushed over and threw the door open.

Both Sylvain and Felix were tucked inside amongst the wooden training weapons and padded armors, half-undressed, with Sylvain's big hand shoved into Felix's breeches. Dimitri had run away after that, mumbling a horrified apology, not even really understanding what he saw until he was lying in bed with his head stuffed under a pillow and sobbing with frustration.

That was when he learned that they had been making excuses not to spend time with him. They were _avoiding_ him. Avoiding him so that they could go off together and explore each other.

His gut twisted and burned. He tried to make all sorts of excuses that what they were doing was wrong. That they were _both_ alphas, and men besides, and being in the training shed, and impropriety, and _how dare they?_

But the truth of it was that he was jealous, and he knew it. Not for the first time, he gritted his teeth in the mirror, praying to see fangs or facial hair. He clenched his fists around his waist so hard while lying in bed, just _begging_ for something to happen, for his body to wake up from dormancy, for hormones to start up and do _something._

Of course, nothing happened except that Glenn asked for the umpteenth time if he was ill and didn't seem to understand that he was trying to push his secondary gender out of him.

Dimitri lay awake trying not to cry.

Before dawn, Sylvain showed up at his door, and bewildering as that was, Dimitri was happy, was eager to see his old friend, and swore he'd do anything Sylvain wanted, even pull a heinous prank if he asked. 

As it turned out, Sylvain was there to sheepishly beg Dimitri not to tell either his or Felix's fathers about what he'd seen (causing Glenn to start forward in confusion).

Dimitri stared at him, still in his nightclothes, from beyond the threshold of his door.

"Are you _serious?"_ It just ejected from his mouth without him even meaning to say anything. Sylvain flinched, he _flinched_ from him, something he had never done before, and somehow, a beast which curled in the depths of Dimitri's stomach began to grow and snarl. 

"L-look," Sylvain sputtered hastily. "It was an accident--you weren't meant to see--we should have been more careful, and my father would butcher--" 

"I have been _waiting_ to see both of my friends for two months," Dimitri growled, echoing and feeding that beast within him, "because for some reason, they refuse to be seen with me, and when you finally come, it's to ask me to keep my silence!?" 

Sylvain looked utterly cowed. He was not stupid and he was more observant than he let on. There was no way he didn't understand why Dimitri was upset, and Dimitri knew it. 

"I… I'm sorry, Mitya," Sylvain whispered, bowing his head. At the use of the cute nickname, Dimitri's beast reared back and howled with fury, as if calling him Mitya _now_ would appease him! "Things have been sort of hectic. I-- _we_ shouldn't have avoided you. We just… didn't think you would understand."

And there it was. Because they had presented and Dimitri had not, he was leagues away from them. They didn't think he'd understand, and he didn't. He knew he didn't. Sylvain was right. Dimitri yearned for the attention of his friends, sometimes even dreamed of a kiss or two, but never once did he feel anything but _alien_ at the thought of anything more intimate. Seeing Sylvain _touching_ Felix like that twisted uneasily in his stomach. He was still a child to them, and worse, they were right.

He slammed the door in Sylvain's face, feigned ill for the day, and ignored any attempts by Glenn to talk about what had happened. He just sobbed angrily into his pillow and then, because his blood was roused with anger and grief, he tore that pillow apart with the barest touch. Sylvain, who flirted with everything that breathed would not flirt with _him_ because he was just a child, even though Felix was no older than he was.

It became that then, _he_ was the one who avoided his friends. Sylvain tried to talk to him, to make time for him after Dimitri's outburst, but Dimitri would callously walk away without a word. He assumed that Sylvain only wanted to make nice so that he didn't tell their fathers. And as angry and hurt as he was, he didn't. In pettiness, he imagined doing so. He imagined having that power over his friends and selfishly delighted in it for a moment, but then ultimately felt awful and lonely once again.

Felix was easier to avoid, but acted so strange. There were moments, if they crossed paths, where Felix looked like he might approach him (not that Dimitri ever gave him the chance) and other times when Felix was like a phantom, elusive and unseen for days on end. And still, Dimitri remained a child. His body stubbornly refused to cave to his pleas for change, and for many wild moments, he was afraid he'd be a child forever.

It was therefore a blessing in disguise that he was not given any time to wallow in such things.

"Almyra?" he asked Tarim quietly at the next morning's council meeting. "They… seek trade with Faerghus?"

Tarim nodded with such vibrant excitement, she looked like she was liable to fall off her chair. She shuffled her papers with nervous energy. "Yes, Your Majesty! This is the first time in over six _decades_ that they've reached out to Faerghus. In the time of King Lambert and King Alexander before him, they had sworn off all relations with us."

"Am I supposed to guess why?" Dimitri asked a bit wearily. He wanted to be excited, but it sort of just confirmed that which he feared most; that his forefathers were more of the brutish, military type than peaceful or compassionate.

Tarim seemed to pick up his mood and sobered instantly, her eagerness appropriately tempered. "Ah, well… it, uh, seems that they… were worried that their trade caravans might be, ah… attacked by thieves and the like…"

Dimitri dismissed the feeble explanation. He understood. In the past few weeks since he'd assumed the throne, his tutors had been replaced from ones meant to teach simple arithmetic, history, and sciences to a young _prince,_ and their roles had been assumed by the council; to advise on economy, military strategy, and sociology. He knew now that the reason for the abundance of thieves and pillagers in Faerghus was not 'a failing of the hearts of men' as his father and tutors had told him. Or rather, it was exactly correct, only the blame rested not with the thieves themselves, but with the lords who were supposed to take care of them. 

As Dimitri sat through visits from his lords and ladies from all across Faerghus, there to give him coronation gifts and pledge their loyalty, he became aware at the sheer disparity of his people's personal wealth. He was given fine jewelry, horses, and extravagant, rare wine and foods from his lords, but when the actual people desired to show their loyalty, they brought meager, paltry things that they could afford; gifts that Dimitri noticed were quite poorly made or poor in sum, but which seemed to be a heavy tithe from those who gave them.

He remembered an old woman, tears in her eyes, staggering into the throne room until she fell to her knees. She wept with joy that her sons would not be drafted by Dimitri and shipped to a foreign country to wage war and risk death. She offered him a wooden comb; an old thing that was carved by a lacking craftsman, but which had clearly been a treasure to her and her family, set with a single, untempered pearl. He tried to kindly return the gift; as a prince, he had combs made from porcelain and whalebone, with pearls that were milky white and perfectly smooth. To him, the comb was an ugly thing. But she insisted. She claimed that the life of her sons was worth giving up this gift and he realized that this twisted, ugly comb was a precious thing to her.

A few noble ladies had twittered behind the woman's back, saying aloud exactly what Dimitri had been thinking. That such a gift was unfit for a pig's curly tail, let alone a King.

He kept it on his bedside table. He never used it, but it reminded him that such a thin and hungry-looking woman had kept the comb safe when she might have sold it for food, and yet gave it to him with such joy in return for letting her sons live out their days by her side in peace.

That was when he had to prune two other councilors from their positions. He had started demanding to know why the noblewomen of the court could wear rubies and silken thread while his people went hungry. Both of them had firmly cited that those fine things were marks of their station, and that the poor were simply lazy and selfish.

His council had become quite small, but Dimitri noted that the arguments became more reasonable; more about who needed what with the most immediacy, rather than just deciding who to make war on, and how should they punish farmers who couldn't pay their taxes.

"Your Majesty?" 

"Hm?" Dimitri quickly looked up at Rodrigue. He'd been thinking about that old woman again. "I am sorry, I'm afraid I am a bit tired. What did you say?" 

Rodrigue smiled kindly, always so understanding. "Your Majesty, it should be noted that the Almyran dignitaries are not yet asking to trade. They are merely interested in sending a diplomat to see if trade with us would be worthy of their time."

"I see…" He drummed his fingers a little on the chair's arm, thinking. He didn't realize it, but everyone else was inwardly thinking how cute it was when he pursed his lips and furrowed his brow in contemplation. He was still so young, after all. "Do we have any records of what we traded with them sixty years ago?" 

"Your Majesty," Tarim cut in, smiling again. "At the time it was mostly fruits, nuts, and spices. Almyra has an arid climate, so we imported things like…" She checked very aged scrolls of parchment. They looked like they were falling apart. "Dates, pomegranates, turmeric, saffron, and almonds mostly."

Dimitri knew only what almonds were out of that list. "So…not necessities?" he asked, a bit worried.

Tarim paused. "Not necessities, no, Your Majesty. But they always wanted things we could afford to spare, so it was mostly excess for excess."

"Such as?" 

"Mostly furs, lumber, and steel ores," she said, checking the papers and adjusting her glasses. "If you intend to cut down on our military budget, we will have no shortage of steel to give them."

Dimitri hesitated. "Do they use it to make war?" Would it not be just as bad to _supply_ warmongers as it was to _be_ them? 

Margrave Gautier was next to answer. He was a stiff and rather unpleasant man, too grim and too brooding by half, not at all like his second son. But he was surprisingly more reasonable in his opinions than Dimitri would have guessed, given how much he adhered to tradition. "My lord, the Almyrans use steel for practical purposes. Steel is made from iron and tin, so it is a light but strong metal. Yes, it is used primarily to make weapons and armor, but it is also used for plowshares, nails, ship parts, and other such things." He kept his arms firmly crossed over his chest, but despite his standoffish way of sitting and talking, he never once treated Dimitri like a child (not even when describing what steel _was,_ which Dimitri had not known). "Besides, that was sixty years ago. Perhaps they want something different from Faerghus now."

"Thank you, Margrave," Dimitri said, extra polite and relieved. "That is good insight." He nodded to Tarim. "I would like to accept their proposal. Did they say when they would like to arrive or whom they would be sending?" 

Tarim did not need to scan the contents of the letter. She'd read it many times in her excitement. "They want to send someone in five month's time. Apparently, one of their younger princes is taking the role of diplomat, so we will need to make a welcome befitting a prince."

Dimitri nodded. Turmeric and pomegranates were not necessities, but if they could afford them, they should have them. Anything to rejuvenate the stunted Faerghus culture of solely hunting, war-making, and huddling around a fireplace in the dead of winter. Besides, he reasoned if they could sell these things from the port, it would put more money into the pockets of his citizens, and he was all for that. 

When he left the meeting, he was in high spirits. In half a year, a prince from Almyra would come, and he'd bring _culture_ and _fun_ to Faerghus, he hoped. He was so excited that the sudden drop of his heart from his throat to his stomach hit thrice as hard when he saw Felix waiting for him outside the chamber. 

"...hey," Felix started hesitantly. 

"Hey," Dimitri said back, suddenly remembering all his woes at once. 

They stood in terrible heavy silence for a moment too long, and then a moment after that too. Felix, who normally hated to make eye contact with anyone, was staring right at him, and Dimitri was so shocked by it that he couldn't help staring back. 

He just wanted to be _friends_ again. He was so tired of being lonely and dancing around them, and avoiding them while also desperately missing them. "Do you want to spar?" he asked quietly, just to say something, pushing the words out in a mumble as if he could pretend he'd said something else in the face of refusal. Felix wasn't talking anyway, and it struck Dimitri that he _might_ have been waiting for his father or for Glenn and not him at all, but--

"Sure," Felix nodded, and he looked himself a little relieved, as if he had been going to ask the same but couldn't find the words. "But…dinner, first?" he asked. 

"Oh, uh… yes. Of course."

As usual, Felix did not eat. But he watched Dimitri do so with a strangely intense eye that Dimitri was too nervous to question. He didn't say a word during, and when they walked to the training grounds together, he didn't say a word then either. Dimitri was just wondering if this was some sort of test that he was failing, that Felix was giving him a solemn sort of trial and that he was doomed to lose him as a friend forever. But then, he opened the shed where Dimitri had found Felix and Sylvain together, and the King couldn't hold back anymore. 

"I didn't tell anyone," he muttered softly, his cheeks burning with shame. He had to speak quietly, or Glenn, not twenty yards away, would take note. "I swear I didn't." Maybe _this_ was the test? 

"I know." And Felix sounded so certain, so trusting, that Dimitri had to look up in relief and astonishment as Felix pushed a training sword into his hand. "You're not a snitch," Felix frowned, as if offended Dimitri would have assumed he believed otherwise. "Now come on. Your swordwork needs practicing."

It was so _normal,_ it wasn't fair. Dimitri fumbled with the sword, much more used to the heft and balance of a longer weapon, and Felix would scoff and correct him. Chastise him lightly, only just on the side of rude. And when Dimitri hurt himself, or got a particularly vicious bruise from Felix, he stopped immediately and went to check on him. It was just like he used to be. Dimitri wanted this, he _wanted_ things to be normal between them. He was _happy._

He should have known better. He tripped over Felix’s weapon as he sliced at his feet, stumbling instead of jumping nimbly like he was supposed to, like Felix did, and he fell--of course--on top of Felix.

It was a strange thing. One moment, he was standing and the next he was sort of airborne for half of a half of a moment, and then he was on his hands and knees, straddling Felix, staring down at him. And Felix was looking up at him, blinking, stunned from being so easily knocked over. 

And then he got angry. Felix never used to get so angry with him. But before Dimitri could even apologize, Felix shoved him off and growled, "Can't you watch where you step? You have all the grace of a wild _pig."_

He got to his feet far more artfully than Dimitri ever could, and started storming off. And Dimitri was just so hurt and bewildered, he didn't know how to stop him or what to say. Had he so offended Felix that he no longer wished to be friends? Not a month ago, Felix was waiting outside the throne room for Dimitri almost every day, begging to spend time with him. And now, not ten minutes into sparring, he was marching off, cursing him under his breath.

Dimitri curled up on the loose sand flooring and started to weep. He didn't _care_ if it wasn't _Kingly_ or _masculine_ to do so. He didn't care if he looked like a _child._ He was just so weary of everything changing and somehow, he was being left behind every time. His friends hated him. His parents were dead. The one person he managed to save in Duscur had gone, leaving his hands empty and his bed cold at night. His Uncle tried to _kill_ him. No one loved him. No one.

At least Glenn didn't shush him. He came to his side and pulled him into his lap and let him sob brokenly against his chest until his tunic and leathers were soaked through, rubbing Dimitri's back and not saying a word. 

He stayed in his room the next day, sending instructions to Rodrigue and Tarim to continue the meeting without him. He just couldn't do it. He couldn't leave his room. Glenn had just barely managed to draw him a bath and get him into his nightclothes and bed. He wasn't moving from there, not today. 

"Why does Felix hate me?" he asked both Glenn and the ceiling, staring absently up at the unwelcoming stone archway.

Glenn gave him the exact answer Dimitri predicted he'd give. "He doesn't hate you, he just has a lot on his mind right now."

Dimitri just rolled over. Of course Felix's brother would say that. Maybe, he thought bitterly, maybe Glenn had felt pity for him and talked Felix into spending time with Dimitri. Maybe Felix hadn't wanted to at all. After all, he had just stared at him through dinner, and then left in such a foul mood over an _accident._

Sylvain was far more tactful than Felix was, but Dimitri didn't care. Dimitri walked into the garden for some peaceful reflection two days later, and then turned right around again when he saw a picnic blanket spread on the grass beneath Sylvain. 

"Wait, wait, wait!" he heard Sylvain beg as he chased him down. "Come on, please, Mitya? I just want to talk!" 

Good, Dimitri thought. He _should_ beg. "What?" he ground out, turning around and folding his arms tightly. He didn't know it then, but when he wanted to sound strict or wanted people to know of his displeasure, he had started imitating Margrave Gautier's physical mannerisms, since the man was _always_ strict and displeased. It didn't escape Sylvain's notice though. He stopped dead in the hallway. 

"Your Majesty," he said, a bit more formally, half-bowing. "Please, just… can we talk? About everything?" 

"So it's just 'Your Majesty' now?" Dimitri asked with a hateful edge. "Is it because of what I am? Is it because of my stupid _title_ that you hate me so much, Sylvain!?" 

Sylvain swallowed and stared down at his boots. "Of course not. I-- _we_ don't hate you. Not at all. I just want to talk, to _explain."_ He looked up at Dimitri with such pleading in his pretty eyes that Dimitri's fury melted on the spot. "Please," he said once more, and Dimitri relented.

They sat on the blanket. It was summer in Faerghus, which meant it was warm enough to enjoy the outside from noon to late afternoon before it again became too chilly to be outdoors. The blue roses, of which Dimitri's stepmother had been so fond, were in bloom all around them, and though the garden had been recently tended and trimmed to perfection, Dimitri had to admit that he liked it better wild. The vines would creep up the castle stones and make it all sort of beautiful and eerie.

He picked miserably at some fish that Sylvain had packed for them. "Well?" he asked, looking up from beneath long golden bangs. "What were you going to tell me?" 

Sylvain had forced himself to eat a few bites so it wouldn't be too awkward, but he set the food aside now. Normally, he'd ease into a subject like this, but he felt Dimitri had already been suffering in the dark for too long. "I have to tell you something. About Felix." He glanced at Glenn, but the man was standing far enough away not to hear their whispers, idly patrolling around the garden hedge. 

Dimitri nodded, mimicking Sylvain's serious tone. "What is it?" 

"Please," Sylvain begged. Dimitri had never seen him do that before. He was normally so carefree and laughing. "You have to promise that you won't tell him that you know."

So this seemed to be a _serious_ secret. Dimitri's eyes widened. He nodded. 

Sylvain squirmed under that blue gaze. He doubted Dimitri knew what it was like to be stared at as intensely as he was doing right now. "Felix hasn't been meaning to avoid you. He… he really _has_ been struggling…"

Dimitri frowned. "Well, I'm sure he's the _only one,"_ he huffed, crossing his arms once again. Sarcasm was so foreign to him that he was surprised to hear it from his own mouth.

"No, no, please listen, Mitya," Sylvain pleaded, hoping the use of his pet name might draw him back. It worked. "Felix… ever since he presented, he'd been acting a bit weird around you and, well… he told me he fancies _men,_ that's why."

To be honest, this was a bit of a letdown. It was surprising, sure. Dimitri had just assumed he and Sylvain had been exploring, not seriously _interested_ in one another. But it wasn't the sort of bombshell secret Dimitri had thought it was going to be. He frowned. "So? Is he afraid I'll be upset? I really don't care."

Sylvain squirmed some more. Dimitri had really never seen him so uncomfortable. "Well, you're the _King,_ after all, so he's nervous."

 _What?_ Why?

"Is there…some sort of law about it?" he asked, genuinely in the dark. "I don't think the earth and sky spirits have anything in their divine word about it, but maybe an ancestor wrote out a law I could look into…" He had seen that his ancestors left damaging imprints on the world even while dead.

Sylvain wanted to shake him, the adorable little idiot. But that would almost certainly be a poor choice. "Mitya, he's not worried about the _law._ He's worried about _you."_

Again, utter bewilderment on Dimitri's face. "But why? I already said I don't care. He should know me better than that. If it's my image or something he's worried about, I'm already not viewed in the best light after ridding the council of Duke Richard and Count James. But really, their advice was just so _bad,_ Sylvain--"

"By the fates, _dammit,_ Dimitri, Felix is in love with _you!"_

Dimitri certainly had a million protests to _that_ assessment, not the least of which being that Felix had just compared him to a wild pig. But for some reason, when he opened his mouth, nothing fell out of it.

* * *

There was a battlefield. Felix had, being thirteen, only ever seen the aftermath, when soldiers had already piled the bodies into neat rows and covered them in preparation for burial. But no, this one was _live,_ as in, there were still people living on it. Screaming, shouting, and crossing blades. It was awful, but he was somehow removed from it. He heard the noise, he saw the smoke and fire, but it was as if he were watching it from a high tower window. It all seemed so pointless from up here. What could they possibly be fighting over that was worth that woman cleaving a man with her axe? What conflict could hold up when the shrieks of impending death were so high and feverish? What human disagreement could be worth so much blood?

Felix loved to fight. The sweat taking over his brow, stinging in his eyes as he twisted, so fast and sharp he was a living weapon himself. He was the son of the Shield of Faerghus, and with his sword, he would fight to protect Dimitri, his King.

But that had always been _theory._ He’d never actually cut through someone. He’d never heard the muted _thunk_ of a blade stoppered in a human body by the meeting of bone, the split of flesh like bursting an overripe fruit. He’d never seen rivers and rivers of blood, so thick that some of these people met their end just by slipping in it.

Yet he watched because for the life of him he could not figure out what was happening. Who were these people? The yellow, the branches of antlers emblazoned across their tabards, _that_ he recognized. Soldiers of the Leicester Alliance. But who were the others, vastly superior opponents, draped in black with accents of bloody scarlet that wasn’t just blood?

Above the carnage, a flag he didn’t recognize waved. A red flag, with a black eagle--a two-headed bird, soaring in victory over this fight.

No. Over the _war._

The very moment he woke up, the symbol flew from his mind, and strive as he might to reclaim the memory, it was as dead as those soldiers had been.

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...

Hello everyone,

I'm so sorry it's been taking me so long to write! My best friend and I are moving out of state and we have a lot of stuff to do. Recently I've been going through a lot of crises as well (both in loss and identity) and I appreciate your patience so much.

The annoying part is that I have to move this fic and a few others onto a different A03 profile. I've not set up the new profile yet, so if you wish to follow the newer version of this fic, I'll have it posted on my twitter @Mechanist_Macha so be on the lookout for that as well. _**IT WILL BE UNDER A DIFFERENT TITLE**_ so please be aware of that!

Thank you so much for the comments and the kudos; I appreciate you all so much and I hope you keep reading! <3333


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